Another Way to Kill Page 5

  Roxana finished and climbed into the cockpit. Cavallos tightened the bolts one more time and fed a cartridge belt into the M-60. Roxana said, “Five minutes.”

  Cavallos rotated the M-60 so it didn’t extend out of the cabin, pulled the side door shut and jumped into the cockpit next to his wife. She fired up the rotors as he strapped in.

  At full power the rotors created havoc inside the hanger, a hurricane of machine-generated wind that flung every scrap of debris into the air. Roxana lifted the Huey off the floor a few feet and eased it forward. She cleared the hangar door and traveled at a low hover across the blacktop.

  They had chosen the private airfield outside Manchester because of its remote access and lack of control tower. A few private planes rested in other hangars, but it was more of a utility field than a regularly used airport. Roxana keyed her radio and announced to any air traffic in the area that she was lifting off. Another pilot replied that he was at 2,000 feet five miles south and would watch for her. Roxana acknowledged and raised the chopper off the ground and into the sky. At 3,000 feet she leveled off and steered north.

  Lush green country ahead and underneath, with rolling hills and nary a strip mall in sight. The few white clouds hanging in the sky were no bother. Roxana’s eyes continuously swept the instrument panel and the open space around the helicopter. The Huey could be seen on radar, but they had disabled the transponder, so any tower making contact would have no idea of their official identification. A major risk, but they wouldn’t be airborne long.

  Cavallos checked his watch. By now their client should have sent word to the prisoners that they would soon be free, but it was the one part of the plan where he lacked control. If somehow the communication had failed, or been intercepted, the client should have let them know, but Cavallos knew he wasn’t the only outlaw always looking over his shoulder. And the client had a place to hide.

  Presently the Irwell River appeared on their right. Roxana steered that way. Over the river, she dropped to 1,500 feet. The ground rushed below them and she followed each turn of the river, the Huey rocking side to side with each maneuver.

  When Cavallos saw the cemetery ahead, he unbuckled and passed between the front seats to the rear cabin. He pulled on a headset with a microphone and asked if Roxana could hear him. She said yes. Opening the side door filled the cabin with a blast of warm air. Cavallos swung the M-60 out and cranked the charging handle.

  The pivot point on the base still felt a little stiff. Cavallos moved the weapon up and down and back and forth, but despite the oil, it still wasn’t ideal. Nothing he could do about it now except compensate for the problem.

  Roxana cut left over a cemetery. The graveyard flashed below. Cavallos leaned out and saw the prison. He took aim. The M-60 bucked lightly against his shoulder, the stand taking most of the recoil. The first burst smacked into the main building. Random follow-up shots struck the guard towers, the administration offices, the dining hall. Return fire from the towers did no damage. The guards had only shotguns, and the pellets couldn’t reach the Huey.

  Roxana dropped low. Cavallos fired some more. The wail of the alarm didn’t penetrate the roar of the chopper engines, but Cavallos could imagine it as he watched stray figures running for cover and into the closest building as the M-60 stingers rained down.

  Roxana did one turn over the windmill of the cell blocks. Prisoners in orange jumpsuits scattered like so many ants, except for two who remained close to their building. Cavallos fired into the yard, the rounds tearing into the dirt and further holding back any approach. The two AQ prisoners broke into a sprint as Roxana set down. They might as well have been in slow motion, as every muscle in Cavallos’s body tightened and he swung the M-60 to and fro looking for real targets. Then the two prisoners jumped into the cabin. Roxana lifted off. Guards in full tactical gear, with submachine guns now, ran out of one of the buildings. Their muzzles flashed. Rounds nicked the Huey. Cavallos triggered a stream of return fire in their direction, and then the Huey was out of range and climbing once again to 3,000 feet.

  Cavallos faced the rescued men. Dark-skinned, short-haired, breathless. The orange jumpsuits had their numbers stenciled on the front. No names. Cavallos didn’t mind that.

  “We land again soon,” he told them. They nodded and stayed back against the cabin wall.

  SAMIN AL-BAZR enjoyed the tranquility of the Scottish countryside with its rolling green hills, trees and gentle breeze. He took a deep breath. The fresh air felt crisp. This could be home someday, and then his watch beeped. Work intruded on tranquility.

  He turned off the alarm and barked orders at his men. The two in the back seat of the Range Rover lumbered out, one carrying an empty RPG-7 while the other clutched a tote bag loaded with high-explosive projectiles. They ran across the field to a cluster of rocks.

  Al-Bazr told the driver, “When you see the chopper, start the engine.”

  The driver, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses, nodded.

  Al-Bazr stepped out of the Rover to stand near the bumper. He held a briefcase for display only. The case was supposed to contain the balance of money owed to Cavallos and his wife. It was empty.

  Presently the al-Qaeda operative heard the helicopter and scanned the sky. Then the chopper descended to the open field. The Rover’s engine sparked to life.

  ROXANA DROPPED to 1,000 feet and went into a long circle over the open field. She saw the Rover, al-Bazr and his briefcase. She missed the rocks.

  Cavallos didn’t and said over the intercom: “Stay away from the rocks. Two men with a rocket launcher.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Fly back over the field.”

  Roxana turned the chopper and Cavallos lunged at one of the prisoners, hitting him hard and grabbing a fistful of jumpsuit.

  “Enjoy your virgins,” he said to the screaming man as he flung the prisoner out the door. The man’s arms and legs flailed as he fell like a rock. He landed head first.

  The RPG-7 flashed from the rocks and the projectile zeroed in. Roxana pitched the chopper to the right, Cavallos grabbing the M-60 to keep from falling. Then the second prisoner was on him, pummeling with fists, wrenching off the headset. Cavallos struck back with an elbow that connected with the other man’s chin. Cavallos turned and slammed a one-two combination into the prisoner’s chest and stomach, then grabbed him by the belt and shoulder and threw him out.

  The chopper rolled left as Roxana dodged another rocket. Cavallos swung the M-60 at the target. The two men below were reloading for a third shot. Cavallos pulled the trigger, and flame flashed from the muzzle. Their bodies dropped in a heap, with the RPG and extra rocket rolling away. Cavallos grabbed the loose headset and told Roxana to go back.

  Bullets from al-Bazr’s handgun nicked the chopper. The Rover’s driver stood through the sunroof firing his pistol. The M-60 hammered some more. Cavallos cut the Rover nearly in half, the driver’s upper body exploding with hits. The last burst from the M-60 cut down al-Bazr, slicing his legs out from under him.

  Roxana set down and handed Cavallos her pistol. Cavallos jumped out and ran toward al-Bazr, who screamed at the sky, his wrecked legs mocking his attempts to move. His blood turned the grass and dirt under him into a red muck. He stopped screaming when he saw Cavallos.

  Cavallos raised the pistol and shot al-Bazr in the head. The man jerked as the bullet plowed through, and then his body lay still. Cavallos picked up the briefcase, opened it to be sure and tossed it away. He spat on al-Bazr’s body.

  Back in the chopper, he let out a breath as Roxana lifted off again.

  “After all that,” she said, “we only have enough fuel to get halfway to where we left the car.”

  “Then we’ll have a nice hike,” he said, adding: “This didn’t happen to those other fellows.”

  PRESENTLY THEY landed, rigging a charge to blow up the chopper, and spent two hours hiking to where they had a car stashed. From there it took another hour to reach the motorway, and less than
twenty-four hours later Cavallos and his wife reached London, where they parked beneath a hotel where they earlier had reserved a room.

  They’d spent a ton of money and now had bupkis to show for the effort. They did not discuss or argue about the situation, but instead took turns in the shower and then had meals sent up before going to sleep.

  “Tomorrow will be better,” Roxana said as she rolled over and dozed off.

  But Cavallos lay on his back staring at the ceiling. Al-Qaeda would not sit still after what had happened. The order would go out for their assassination. Perhaps a reward would be posted and freelance hitters would make a play. Running from the Western police and intelligence forces was one thing; al-Qaeda was another story.

  And they had no sanctuary. Cavallos let out a sigh and lay awake for a long time.

  CAVALLOS DIDN’T awaken the next morning until he smelled bacon. He raised his head to see Roxana setting plates on the table. Bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and coffee.

  “You slept like a log,” she said.

  “Felt like I was awake most of the night.”

  He brushed his teeth and joined her at the table.

  “That was good flying yesterday,” he said between bites.

  She smiled and poured sugar into her coffee. The smile faded and her eyes told him something else.

  “We’ll be okay,” he said.

  “You always say that.”

  “Have I ever been wrong?”

  “When we were young—”

  “Please, Roxana. Let’s not dwell on our decisions. We can always give up and spend the rest of our lives in prison.”

  “You’ll spend them alone. I’ll die first.”

  “Then we wait for something to turn up. It will.”

  They ate quietly for a while.

  “How about Paris for a few days?”

  Cavallos nodded. “We could…” and he stopped talking at the sight of a black car pulling up across the street. Four men exited.

  Special Branch?

  No. The four men had darker skin than the average Briton.

  “They’re here,” Cavallos said, and bolted from the table.

  Roxana, already dressed, grabbed their tote bags and car keys. Cavallos jumped into yesterday’s clothes and zipped a jacket over the pistol his wife gave him.

  “We can’t have a fight here,” she said.

  He nodded and they left the room, skipping the elevator for the stairwell. As the stairwell door closed behind them, the elevator dinged open and the four men from the car emerged. They drew pistols and advanced toward the empty room.

  5

  Negotiations Can Be Murder

  THEODORE STANTON Trent had nothing to do.

  The technicians at the test site were doing all the work, monitoring equipment in the bunker, preparing the target that sat down range. He stood in the back, almost in the corner, a naughty child facing forward during a time-out.

  The narrow stone bunker, built eight feet into the earth, really didn’t have the extra space for him. Rows of computer monitors lined the front; servers and other electrical components took up the rest of the wall space. Techs sat elbow to elbow in front of their workstations. Other techs squeezed by Trent as they went out to check the target.

  The target down range was a World War Two–vintage tank, an M3 Light Tank. The techs, a humorous sort, had painted a yellow smiley face on the side. Trent hated to destroy the old relic but took solace in that it was once again serving its country.

  Trent stood well over six feet, a little soft in the middle from so many years spent behind a drafting table, but otherwise fit, with sharp blue eyes and most of his hair, which had prematurely turned gray in his 30s.

  “M-113 on the way,” one of the techs said. Trent stepped outside to watch the arrival.

  The bunker and testing area occupied a small portion of the 200 acres of country behind Trent Defense. The sprawling complex, located in southern Texas near Corpus Christi, had been his base of operations for nearly twenty years.

  The M-113, a track-and-wheel armored transport with a cannon on the roof, rumbled toward the bunker. It followed well-worn tracks in the dirt. It wasn’t a standard M-113. A parabolic dish was mounted on the roof, behind the cannon, connected to electrical equipment in the back cargo area. The M-113 stopped next to the bunker. The engine grumbled; the hydraulic brakes hissed. Two technicians hopped out, and one made adjustments in the back while the other climbed a ladder to the dish. The tech manually positioned the dish so it pointed at the M3 tank. Trent watched without comment. Today’s test wasn’t to see if what he’d worked so hard to build would work. He knew it worked from previous tests. Today’s effort was to make sure there were no kinks prior to demonstrating the weapon for the Russians.

  He’d named it the M-680c, the “c” designation meaning it was the third version. And it was just about perfect.

  Trent had dreamed of creating a laser gun, the official phrase being the less cool “direct energy weapon,” back in his 20s when sitting in a theater watching Star Wars for the umpteenth time in 1977. The ability to harness directed energy, and channel it at a specific target, had taken decades to go from theoretical to practical.

  The techs at the M-113 announced all was ready. One hopped back in the cabin to sit behind the firing controls. A monitor showed a bull’s-eye on the tank; a joystick with a trigger would fire the weapon when the time came.

  “T minus five,” the lead tech in the cabin announced.

  The tech in the firing seat flipped switches, and the dish started to hum. Trent returned to the bunker. The monitors showed a red dot landing on the yellow smiley face as well as other technical information that updated so fast, Trent couldn’t keep up.

  The tech at the firing seat wrapped a hand around the joystick and pulled the trigger. The M-680c took forty-five seconds to fire, and when the pulse activated, there was no sound or any indication from the dish. The tank just exploded. The flash filled the monitors, and the ground shook. If you didn’t know the dish had fired, it looked as if the tank had spontaneously combusted. Pieces of the tank rained down over a black spot on the dirt where the tank once sat. None of the debris landed on the bunker.

  “Excellent,” Trent said. “Is there anything else we can blow up?”

  TRENT RETURNED to his office, which was on the first floor of the main building, rear parking lot and part of the cityscape beyond visible from his window. He could have taken an office on the upper floor, as any other company president indeed did, but after forty years of working, he refused to ride an elevator or take stairs in his own building.

  He sat at his desk, bifocals at the edge of his nose, typing notes into a computer document. He worked in a large office, black tiled floor with gray walls, paintings here and there, no bookcases. He did have a small fridge in the corner for sodas and his lunch, along with the usual desktop computer and printer adjoining the desk.

  Having worked his way through college with a company that sold oil and gas to the army, he had made plenty of defense industry contacts that were eager to bring him aboard once he’d earned his degree in mechanical engineering. Further education in applied physics came when the idea for a laser weapon dug into his head, yet at the time he lacked the knowledge to make the idea a reality. He was one of many exploring such dreams. Not getting the U.S. contract to build deployable direct energy weapons wasn’t the result of inferior tech, but of the usual shenanigans that befell any federal contract. Not enough palms greased, or not the lowest bid.

  The loss hurt nonetheless.

  Enter the Russians. Would they like a demonstration of a fantastic new weapon? Yes, indeed.

  Trent was old enough, unlike most of his current engineering staff, to remember Russia as the enemy.

  Now they were a potential new revenue source.

  Trent finished typing as his office door opened and a young woman entered. Dark skirt, blouse, high heels tapping on the tiled floor. She wore her hair in a ponyta
il, and the tail bounced as she moved. Her brown eyes matched her late mother’s—Colleen Trent was her father’s daughter, however.

  “Hi.” She sat in front of his desk and crossed her legs. Colleen was an engineer, too, and worked in research and development.

  “Just got your notes finished,” Trent said. The printer hummed to life and spit out two pages, which Trent collected and handed to his daughter. She gave him a look as he sat down, and he shifted uncomfortably under the stare.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t agree with your trip to Monaco, this Russian deal.”

  “Colleen—”

  “Are you even watching what’s happening in the world?”

  “They aren’t the enemy anymore, Colleen. They’re nothing like when I was your age and nuclear war was a distinct possibility. Times change.”

  “Putin sends out his bombers to violate NATO and U.S. airspace like it’s some sort of game. It’s classic saber rattling, Dad. If you sell to him—”

  “Honey, stop. We’ve worked too long and hard not to sell our product.”

  “A product, as you say, that in the wrong hands gives the world another way to destroy itself.”

  “Do I have to remind you of all the money we’ve spent? We can’t just write it off. We’ll go bankrupt.”

  “Have you thought about retooling for medical purposes?”

  Trent let out a breath.